In Decwells on George’s Street I traded my body for a bucket of paint because I had no money and paint doesn’t want for things or get hungry. They were out of red so I opted for crimson and rolled out of the shop avoiding collision with pedestrian and pigeon. I hadn’t a notion in my head because I hadn’t a head and the notions I had were not notions but crimson, liquid, dead. Well I rolled to the offy and the lad at the counter must have felt sorry for a solitary bucket bumping despondently against a crate of Karpackie, and not a penny on him. So he opened a bottle of the finest gin, picked me up gently, cranked off my lid and poured the spirit in. Oh sweet goodness! I burst a crimson grin, left the poor lads face a sunset of sin, and sticky. Drunk as a bucket I leapt from his grasp like a poisonous frog, legless but no longer aware of it, the rainforest beckoning. As lidless I rolled my contents spilt out covering pigeons and pavements and shoes and bins and cars and guards and buildings and bridges with the gloopy, primordial liquid till town was coated in drunken paint. But nobody noticed, cos by then it was 3 on a Saturday night.